Singing in the Rain
by zevie
Summary: Tim Shepard hates the rain. But, he may have worse problems. A oneshot. Seriously written, for once. A short look into Tim's home life. Note: there is no singing.


Singing in the Rain:

A/N: Rated for a reason. Not overly sexual, but Tim is a boy, after all.

This story is serious, for once. I'm not used to leaving out the humour, and I'm not sure how well it comes off. Without the jokes, there are some parts that may just be offensive and abrasive.

P.S. There's maybe one joke. I couldn't resist. Or, two.

Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own.

* * *

Tim Shepard hates the rain. He hates that it makes him feel dirty, like he should take a shower. He hates that it makes everything and everyone smell like wet dog. He hates when you're wearing jeans and a pick-up comes out of nowhere and runs through a puddle and soaks you and the jeans shrink and your balls freeze so that they're hardly there anymore. And then the jeans take three days to dry. Tim Shepard doesn't have a lot of clothes. But, what Tim hates the most, even more than peeling off freezing wet jeans and having to look for his penis, is how for most of the day when it's raining, he's stuck inside. 

He feels trapped. There is nobody to go out and play with, and he sure as hell ain't gonna walk around like a sucker getting wet and smelly and cold. There's only one good reason for standing outside when it's raining like this and Tim hasn't felt like crying in a long time, although he wonders if it might help.

He looks at the clock that says a quarter past three. He's been sleeping until a half-hour ago; sleep is the only good thing about a rainy day, and even then Tim wakes up with his mouth and throat dry as sand and a pressing headache from too much sleep.

From experience, Tim already has a good idea of what he's gonna do today. At least when it's raining it gets dark sooner - he can head to Buck's or The Dingo or anywhere but here at seven. Dallas has already promised to come by with the T-Bird. Tim thinks he should call someone else - Dally's not good with promises.

He's slept half the day, that's according to plan. For the next four hours he's got a list of shit that he doesn't do much, that he doesn't care for much, but that needs to be done. He'll do laundry. He'll clean his room, which will be easy once the dirty clothes are gone. He'll jack off. He'll take a bath, maybe jack off again. Strictly business. He'll keep himself busy.

Tim has to keep busy, and he has to keep out of sight. Because if he sits around too much, he'll start having to deal with the other people he's got himself cooped up with.

His parents are downstairs. They're talking. Arguing. But, quietly. Tim wonders what he should do now, before they get louder and he can't concentrate. Angela starts singing to herself in the next room, some pop song. Beatles? Elvis? Tim likes music well enough; he's got a radio in his room that's on every minute, but it's not something he thinks about. It's background. It's like air. In any case, he can't touch himself when he's hearing his sister's voice, and he needs some clean clothes.

Tim gets out of bed, sneaks downstairs, puts his laundry in. On the way back he listens at the kitchen door. He can't hear the words, but that's not a problem. He knows the different tones of voice. Tim's an expert. He knows what comes next. His mom screaming. His stepdad swearing. He moves back to the stairs before someone throws a plate.

He gets to his room and there's someone there. Curly's crouched on the floor; he's got Tim's cigarettes in his hand. Bastard. He's looking at something. He's so absorbed he doesn't hear Tim come back in, and that's how Tim knows it's a Playboy. That, and Curly's other hand is stuck under Tim's mattress and there's only one thing he keeps there. He wonders how the little fucker knew he hid it.

"Hey," he says. Curly jumps. He looks up, shocked. Tim nods at the magazine. "You can take it. Got nothing I ain't seen before." He holds out his hand. "The cigarettes can stay."

Curly turns red. Leaves the magazine, hands Tim the cigarettes, but he's brave enough to steal one, quick. Tim's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He slaps Curly across the back of his head, but lets him keep the cigarette. Curly grins back. Downstairs something smashes, high pitched. His mom screams. His stepdad swears. Tim figures it was a water glass.

Curly stops grinning. "Here," he says roughly, sheepishly. He hands Tim back the cigarette and turns to leave. Halfway out the door, Tim whistles and Curly turns in time to catch the pack.

"Don't let me catch you stealing from me again, you little son-of-a-bitch." Curly leaves in a hurry.

Tim tucks his last cigarette behind his ear, cleans up the few things left in his room. He leaves the magazine where it is, reaches in between the sheet and the mattress on the side closest to the wall. It's where he keeps the good stuff.

He gets to the centre-fold in time for the fireworks. There's hollering. There's more smashing. Tim makes a note to take out the trash.

He closes the magazine, tucks it away carefully. He can't concentrate with the noise, and the pounding of footsteps on the stairs makes him nervous every time. Old habits die hard.

Tim goes to the bathroom - it's the only room in the house besides Angela's that has a lock on the door. He strips, gets in the bath. Finishes what he started, with the rushing water covering the sounds, both the ones from downstairs and the ones he's making. As good as it feels he doesn't like doing it. He doesn't like that he feels that he has to do it. He gets that feeling every damn morning unless he's gotten some the night before.

When he's clean again, he walks back to his room. It's quieter now. The fight's almost over. Tim figures he has time to do it again before it gets back to loud. He's thinking about it when he walks into his room and sees Angela sitting on the bed. Then he starts thinking about moving out again.

"What do you want?" he asks. She ignores him. She's reading something. It takes him a minute to realize it's the Playboy he left sitting on the ground. Tim swears. He's on her in a second making a grab for the magazine, but she darts away and Tim has to choose between holding his towel and getting the magazine. She's his baby sister and she's seen tits before - he chooses the towel.

"What's this, huh?" She smirks. She's a bitch. She reminds Tim of himself.

"You shouldn't be looking at that shit, Angel," he says. He adjust the towel, pulls it in tighter. He's uncomfortable being so naked in front of her, and he figures she knows him well enough that she can tell.

"You shouldn't be looking at this either," she says smugly. She dangles it open at a naked blonde. "Doesn't this look like Sylvia?"

Tim curses, knows he's blushing, grabs at the magazine. He knows damn well it looks like Dally's girl. The page is heavily creased.

Angela laughs. "Dally's gonna be mighty pissed when he finds out you want to fuck his girlfriend."

Tim swears she can read his mind. "Don't say 'fuck' Angel, it ain't ladylike."

Angela rolls her eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

"You say that one more time, I'll wash your mouth out with soap," Tim says.

"Fuck, fuck-"

"I'll cut your fucking tongue out."

Angela shuts up. Even though Tim's not serious, even though he's only wearing a towel, he's still her big brother and he knows he's got a little bit of intimidation working for him.

"Give me the magazine," Tim said. "And..." He stops himself. He's not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was right.

"And, what? Tell Dally you wanna share-"

"You keep your trap shut. You don't know nothin'."

"I know that the last time Dallas was in jail Sylvia talked a blue streak about how you were more man than him."

Tim yanks open the door, shoves her out. Manages to grab the magazine before slamming the door.

He turns back to his room and tosses the magazine behind his bed. His mood has changed. It doesn't matter. There's a broad he's been eyeing over at Buck's and he figures he'd rather have sex with her than with himself.

He checks the clock. It's close to five. He spent more time in the bathroom than he thought. He's happy about that. The house has gone quiet so he goes down to get his laundry. He's got nothing else to wear.

Tim barely has time to pull on his clothes before he hears the yelling start up again. He was expecting it, but this time it's different. He stops, listens. His mom screaming. His stepdad swearing. Angela...crying?

He opens his door. Angela's swearing and running past, but she takes a detour and pushes past him into his room. Her cheek is red; her eyes are wet and angry. Tim's stepdad comes up the stairs. He's swearing a blue streak. Downstairs, his mom breaks something else. Hollers up at him.

_"Move."_

His stepfather's standing right there. He's out of breath but what he's got left smells like scotch.

_"That little bitch has got it coming."_

Tim doesn't move. He listens to the rock music Curly's blaring. He counts the number of times his mother crosses the kitchen floor downstairs. He digs his fingers into the chipped paint of his doorframe and some of it comes off under his nails.

_"You deaf? You a fucking deaf idiot? Move."_

He counts his teeth with his tongue. He tries to remember the last name of the girl he had sex with last week. He watches the sweat bead on his stepfather's hairline.

_"You little shit. I ought to throw you out into the street right now. You think you can fuck around with me and live under my roof?"_

He doesn't say anything. His stepdad's a big guy. He traces the pattern of his checkered shirt with his eyes. He lists swear words in his head.

A fist slams into the door. It sounds louder than it should.

There's more yelling downstairs and his stepfather turns back to answer it. Tim goes back in his room, closes his door. He doesn't shake.

Angela's wiped her face. She's so white it's painfully obvious where the red starts on her cheek. Tim gives her his last cigarette. He waits until she lights it then says: "You going out tonight?"

She shrugs. Inhales.

"You leave that what's-his-name alone ya hear?" He pauses. Her boyfriend's trouble. "And don't go near Buck's."

She frowns. "I'm going out with Sylvia," she says pointedly.

"I'm going out with Dallas."

She smiles. "That's dumb."

The door opens behind him, but it's slowly, so he knows it's Curly.

"Did he hit you?" Curly's looking at Angela, and he's red with anger. Tim wishes he didn't try so hard to be tough. The show of effort makes him look weak.

Angela says nothing.

"If he did, I'll..." Curly trails off.

Angela shakes her head. "Getting all worked up over nothing. Idiot." She stands up and brushes past Curly. Tim follows her, pretending he can protect her.

Down the stairs, through the hall. Into the kitchen. Out the door. Tim watches her leave. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't look back. She's too much like him already.

He gets hit so fast he falls over, against the wall.

_"You wanna be a man? Huh, tough guy? You wanna be a fucking hero?"_

Tim tries not to hear.

_"Why so quiet? Why so fucking silent, hero?"_

He lets himself get hit once more. He tastes blood. After the next punch, he'll hit back.

It doesn't come. He never gets hit more than twice. Tim's always felt privileged.

Tim stands outside. He's leaning against the wall of the house, out of the rain. He's not getting wet, but where he's standing he can hear everything. His mom screams. His stepdad swears.

Tim thinks about Mathews' dad running out on him when he was...what...nine? Tim thinks about that little kid Dallas is always babying, and the bruises that look almost natural on him now. Tim thinks about the shit that Dally's dad did to him before Dallas ran away. Tim tells himself he's lucky. Tim tells himself he feels better.

He's still for a minute, listening to the fight die down. He wishes Curly would leave the house, but, he thinks he could hold his own if pushed that far. He thinks Curly would punch back after the first hit. He hopes he would.

Tim looks at the rain, coming down in sheets. He hates the rain. He hears rock music, distant. If he moves an inch, he'll get soaked. He takes a couple of steps forwards.

* * *

His eyes are closed, so he hears the T-Bird before he sees it. He knows it's Dallas, even before he honks. Tim can hear the rock music from inside, even with his ears filled with water. He leans against the railing. 

"Whatcha doing standing in the rain like a dumbass?" Dallas is hollering. Tim opens his eyes, watches Dallas coming forward. Dallas looks at him closely. He's not subtle - but then again, he's never tried to be. "Fuck."

Tim knows he's bruised a little. It's no big deal. "Walked into a door." He almost smiles. "I'm a fucking jackass."

Dallas pulls his jacket in tighter. Jams his fists into his pockets. Looks uncomfortable. "Nah," he says, in his New York accent.

Tim smiles for real. "Naw," he corrects Dally.

Tim watches the rain turn Dally's hair from white to blond. He feels wet. He feels cold. He feels numb.

"I hate the rain," Dallas says, suddenly, violently, like everything else he does.

Tim stands up straight. "Let's go," he says. He hates it too.


End file.
